Solstice
by AliceInSomewhereland
Summary: He is born at sunrise on the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, with a tuft of hair the same gold of the sun and eyes as bright and blue as the sky. She is born at midnight on the winter solstice a year and a half after him, in a shadowy, drafty hut, when the moon is high and full and shining bright. Arranged marriage AU for day 21 of 31 days of Enjonine tumblr challenge
1. part i

Hello dear readers,

It is with great pride that I present to you _Solstice,_ inspired by the winter solstice, which is, of course, December 21 of every year.

It was written for day 21 of the 31 days of Enjonine challenge on tumblr (head over to the blog of the same name to read all the incredible stories and look at all the beautiful art that came in for our dear OTP), and was the main reason there hasn't been an update on my other in-progress fic, _Wait Until the Lone Sun Breaks_, since October. It actually broke tumblr it's so long (the lovelies running the blog had to break it into two posts), and it took more than a month to write. In the end, I was left with probably the best thing I've ever written, and I'm so excited to share it here!

Thank you so much already for the overwhelming response I got on tumblr (for those that saw this fic there first). I promise I'll get an update for _Lone Sun_ up ASAP!

Like I mentioned, this story is incredibly long. In the end, it checked in at more than 20,000 words. I wrote it in six parts, and have separated said parts into their own chapters to make it easier to read.

**Disclaimer:** only the situation and character interpretations are mine. The rest belongs to dear Vicky Hugo, whose house I visited in Paris last week (and oh man did he live in style).

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_part i_

He is born at sunrise on the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, with a tuft of hair the same gold of the sun and eyes as bright and blue as the sky. The people – _his_ people, someday – rejoice: the gods have granted them a savior, a leader, who will protect them against the evils of the night, against the demons who mean them harm as the days grow shorter. Some even whisper that the god of light was born into the world in human form, to deliver his believers from their sorrow.

He is named Enjolras, and he is worshipped.

His first birthday is celebrated from dawn to dusk in conjunction with the summer solstice celebrations, and the people face yet another cold, dark winter with bravery and optimism.

She is born at midnight on the winter solstice a year and a half after him, in a shadowy, drafty hut, when the moon is high and full and shining bright. She is pale as its silver face, with hair as dark as the night sky, and eyes that are darker still. The priestesses predict that she will be a powerful healer, perhaps the greatest ever known, and even in her infancy, she becomes known as the High Priestess. The people worship her, awaiting the day that she reigns over them with wisdom and grace. Surely, she will lead them through the darkness, bringing them easily to peace and warmth and light again.

She is named Eponine, and the priestesses murmur thanks in their prayers for the gift of a goddess born into the flesh of a human infant.

The people adore her, and her parents quickly forget her in favor of the power she will one day possess.

But soon, the two nations begin to talk. A baby born on each solstice, opposite in every way – it can only mean war and death and the destruction of all things good. His people fear that this tiny girl will grow to kill their prince, that she will plunge the world into total and eternal darkness. Her people believe that he will burn her alive, and take them, too.

A council meets, of kings and priestesses, on the border of the two nations. After much arguing, debating, and drinking, they decide the children will be married, unified so they _cannot_ destroy one another. Surely this will appease the gods; surely, the children themselves, these sacred vessels, will serve their divine parents and their mortal people equally.

They will be married, it is decided, thirty days after his eighteenth summer solstice. The days will still be long, but they will be married under the light of the moon. This will undoubtedly please the gods.

He grows into a passionate, intense, highly intelligent young man. He will be the best king, the sun king, burning with the same fire.

She is a wild thing; unpredictable, unreliable, flighty, and mischievous. But she's clever, and could be a great priestess if she wanted. She takes the healing more seriously, but prefers to run barefoot through the fields, chasing her sister and brothers, far from her parents.

The priestesses tell her of her betrothal when she's fourteen; they catch her kissing a charismatic street urchin named Montparnasse, and forbid her from ever seeing him again. She's so angry, so betrayed, that she runs – she is caught by the city guard before she can even make it to the gates. They keep her in the temple for days as punishment, and she reflects on her misfortune.

She hates him already. Who needs to see him, when she already knows what he'll be like? Cruel, undoubtedly, and awful. Probably fat and balding, but hairy everywhere else, and _old_. Yes, she _loathes_ him, this stupid, selfish, spoiled brat who thinks he _owns_ her.

They're always telling her she's a goddess, born into a human body, meant to save her people. She begins to wonder if it's a lie, if the priestesses truly believe it or if they want to keep the people submissive. If she were truly a goddess, they wouldn't _dare_ force her to marry a stranger. They wouldn't dare take her away from her family and her home and her people.

She concludes that she isn't. Just a normal human girl, chosen to be a symbol. The gods, she decides, are myths created by humankind and perpetuated by people like the priestesses. They aren't real. There is no divinity, only humanity; cruel and corrupt and miserable.

She does not cry about the betrothal. She does not cry about Montparnasse, or her loss of belief in the gods. She does not cry about her siblings or her city or her people. She will _never_ cry about this, any of it.

She wonders if he hates her, too.


	2. part ii

_part ii_

She sets out with a guard, two handmaidens, Cosette and Musichetta, and several priestesses a week before the summer solstice.

She speaks very little, even to the girls. She has resolved to suffer in silence, as her final dissent against the priestesses, to whom she will not speak at all.

They arrive at midday on the solstice, and as they approach his city – a great, rocky monstrosity built on a cliff with a dangerous drop into the sea (though she is relieved that there is a forest less than a league away) – she feels her stomach churning, and is certain her insides are turning to ash even as they emerge from the woods.

A mounted party is waiting for them; eight young men, only a few years her senior. None of them are fat and balding. She wonders which is her prince.

They bow to her from their saddles as her party approaches, and inform her that they are to accompany her to the temple, where she will wash and prepare to meet her betrothed. She can't decide whether she's relieved or disappointed that he isn't counted among her welcoming committee, and wonders if he couldn't be bothered.

She rides at the head of the formation, with a kind-faced, curly-haired boy named Courfeyrac on her left, and a mild-expressioned, sandy-haired boy named Combeferre on her right. Both try several times to engage her in conversation, but she takes her vow of silence seriously, and ignores them, doing her best to seem imperious, but certain she just seems tiny and afraid.

Still, they all tell her stories about her betrothed: how kind he is, how intelligent, how passionate about everything he does. She knows they are trying to comfort her, but their words only make her more anxious.

The city is big and stone and all the buildings are close together in narrow streets. It's so different from her home, with its spacious streets and cozy, wooden homes. She hates it here.

Even the temple is different, she finds, as she is delivered to the priestesses there, who instantly take her and her handmaidens to wash.

She soaks in her misery, unable to enjoy even the feel of the hot water as it coaxes the mud from her pores.

She imagines that, somewhere across the city, the prince's troupe is regaling him with stories of her. She can practically hear them describing her skinny frame, her long hair, her pale skin. She wonders if they noticed the rough skin on her hands (from climbing too many trees as a child).

She decides they're probably telling him how haughty she is, and wonders if any realized that it was an act to keep from seeming scared. She wonders if they're talking about her as though she's a child, even though it's his eighteenth solstice and he's only a year and a half older than her.

The priestesses dress her in a fancy gown that is so different from the simple, comfortable fashions that she is used to; her shoulders and arms are bare, and silver beading gathers the fabricate at the shoulders into thick straps, from which a train spills. It's pale purple, almost gray, and more delicate than anything she's ever felt. It will make running away hard, and she wishes she were dead.

They set out as the sun begins its descent against a purple and orange sky. Cosette and Musichetta are dressed in identical gowns that match the deep blue of the early night sky; Musichetta looks beautiful in the shade of blue, all dark skin and hair and eyes, while Cosette glows like the stars beneath the dress, all silver hair and skin. They flank her as she rides sidesaddle on a horse as white as snow, which Cosette's father, Jean Valjean, leads.

They reach the celebration, and she is certain she will be sick, or will simply melt into the ground. Suddenly, the cliff and its far – surely deadly – drop into the sea don't seem so unwelcome.

Her heart is pounding and she is shaking as she is gently lifted down from the horse. The handmaids quickly right her hair and fix her gown (which she feels all too naked in), and then she's met, her hand is kissed, and she's being led round the corner by the king's herald, and under a flowered arbor that opens to the festivities.

The first thing she notices is that the festival is on the cliff, and she can see to the edge of the earth, where the dark water meets the brilliant sky.

The second thing she notices is the king, standing from his place and looking triumphant as she enters.

All sound and motion cease as the entire city turns to look at her. She looks stonily ahead, forcing her face to remain devoid of fear or apprehension.

The king approaches her, arms outstretched, and his welcoming words resound around the cliff. The people break into whispers. She hears none of it. The king kisses her hand, then leads her away from her small party, from the last little bit of home she has left, loudly commenting on what he is certain was a safe, pleasant and relatively stress-free trip (as her senses slowly begin to work again, she has to force herself not to make a rude comment about how a week spent on horseback is rarely pleasant).

As he leads her away, towards a long table set with lavish, gold plates and goblets facing the glorious, endless sea, she glances back. Musichetta, Cosette, Valjean, and the others in her party remain stationary. Both of the girls have encouraging smiles plastered to their faces, nodding slightly even as the distance between them grows, but in reality they look just as small and lost as she feels.

As they approach a long table that faces the sea, she spots the faces of some of the knights that met her earlier in the day. Her heart is pounding as they reach the dais, and the king looks around hopelessly, finally sighing exasperatedly and shouting for his son.

After a moment – a moment that is suffocating and seems eternal – there is movement to the left of her vision, and a figure steps forward. Her breath catches in her throat as her heart threatens to burst from anxiety.

There, silhouetted against the sea and the brilliant orange sun, is the man she can only assume is her betrothed. He is tall; that's the first thing she notices, with a shock of hair as golden as the sun. And he's handsome, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones; it's the chiseled face of a marble statue. He's wearing a red coat that suits him brilliantly, and the shirt underneath is open just enough to reveal a lean collarbone.

Definitely not a fat, balding, old man, then.

He's surveying her critically, and she's sure that this useless dress is sheer, that she's naked and he can see everything about her, both inside and out. He strolls forward then, his posture tense and his affectation chilly and his jaw clenched tight, and takes her hand without waiting for her to offer it, brushing lips that don't even purse against her knuckles. He won't meet her eyes, and her heart is pounding in her ears as her trembling hand falls back to her side unceremoniously.

"It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Eponine. I am Enjolras. Welcome to my home," his voice is tight, and his words sound rehearsed. He even sounds a little angry.

"I am delighted, Monsieur, thank you," Eponine responds politely, wondering if she sounds as miserable as she feels. Her voice is hoarse from her self-imposed silence, and suddenly she's worried about what he must think of her. She feels like a child again, in trouble at the temple, with all the priestesses staring at her as they decide on her punishment.

She wishes her sister were there.

They feast in her honor, and in honor of the prince's eighteenth solstice, and in honor of the gods. She sits just to his right, and forces herself to eat a bit – she's trained enough to know not to be rude, even if the food tastes like ash in her mouth and her stomach wants nothing more than to reject it. The king talks to her, but mostly to the High Priestess who accompanied her and who came to oversee the marriage, leaving Eponine and her betrothed in a tense, awkward silence.

The dinner drags on, and she picks at the food, and stares at the entertainment without seeing. As the moon rises, she feels slightly more at ease, confident that the shadows will help hide her face.

When it's over, Enjolras unenthusiastically invites her and her people on a tour of the city the following morning with his friends; she mechanically responds yes. It seems he is as excited about the prospect as she is, and she is relieved when she is taken to a room in the castle and reunited with Cosette and Musichetta.

They chatter at her as they prepare for bed, trying to be positive and remind her that he's handsome and young and it could be much, much worse, but Eponine snaps at them to stop speaking, and they have the decency to ignore – save for a few comforting squeezes on her shoulders and arms and hands – the few tears that drip from her eyes.

She goes to sleep utterly miserable.


	3. part iii

_part iii_

They are married thirty days later, as the full moon begins its nightly ascent, just as it had been decided sixteen years before. She is dressed in a delicate, gray gown, embroidered with silver, and he wears red and gold.

Eponine refuses to cry, but cannot remember the last time she smiled, so instead she quietly, morosely repeats her vows, and does her best to imagine the smiling faces of her younger siblings as she stares just over his shoulder. She doesn't even hear Enjolras deliver his own vows, and is so tuned out of the wedding that she misses the part where the priestess wraps their hands in the heavy, long ribbon and announces them husband and wife, to be sealed with a kiss.

The priestess clears her throat deliberately, glaring at Eponine, who jumps as Enjolras, who looks pale and frightened and sickly beneath the moonlight, leans forward and brushes her lips with his own.

The spectators erupt into cheers, and Eponine wishes she were anyplace else.

The priestess unwraps their hands so they can comfortably eat and dance and enjoy the celebration (which Eponine finds impossible, and it seems Enjolras does as well), and after a few hours that dragged along, it is over.

The priestess wraps the ribbon delicately around Eponine's neck and shoulders, and then there is quite the sendoff, as Musichetta and Cosette and several other young handmaidens and priestesses lead her off to the castle, to Enjolras' chambers, her new and permanent bedroom, where the worst part of the night awaits.

They prepare her, bathing her quickly and pulling her hair out of its knot and arraying it perfectly on her shoulders as they situate her on his bed, resting on her knees, hands palm-up in _supplication_, her entirely-too-sheer nightgown – which she isn't even supposed to keep on for more than a few minutes – splayed artistically around her legs. They've tied the ribbon high up on her thigh; Enjolras is meant to take it as a reward, as a _prize_ to present as proof that their marriage has been consummated.

She wants to vomit, and tries to grab for both Cosette and Musichetta as they're rushed from the room by the others, throwing her sympathetic and encouraging smiles as they are hurried away from her. Their whispered words of courage echo in her ears, but don't stop her from trembling or from feeling more frightened than she ever has before.

Eponine resolves that no matter how hard he tries and no matter how hard she has to fight, she will _not_ give herself up to him. Her body is the only thing in her life that is still truly hers – a life that, in the eyes of the gods, now belongs to Enjolras – and she will keep her control over it if it is the last thing she does. She will not be a victim, will not be _his_ victim; she will fight and not be the complicit little tool of the priestesses, of her parents. Her life has never been hers, but if her last and only protest is to deny him his prize, she will make him understand that she is not here for his pleasure.

She tries desperately _not_ to think of Montparnasse.

It seems like an eternity that she sits there, kneeling on his soft blankets, resting her naked buttocks against her heels, but in reality it's only a few moments before Enjolras enters.

He freezes when he sees her there, flushing and lowering his eyes before turning away. She frowns, looking down, feeling the tips of her ears turn red as she realizes her breasts are clearly visible through the sheer material.

He slips off his red coat, and her heart starts pounding even harder with panic. This is it. She reminds herself to stay in control. He turns to her then, his eyes still cast down and away from her shaking frame, and crosses the room in a few short strides.

She's _shocked_ when he wraps the jacket around her shoulders, covering her exposure, before jumping back in hasty retreat halfway across the room, his hands held up in front of him in what seems almost like surrender.

A moment later, the surprise wears off, and is replaced with the sharp sting of rejection. Of course, she hadn't ever intended to let him touch her, but the fact that he didn't even _try_, especially since it is his "right" as her husband – the word sounds foreign and unpleasant, even in her head – bruises her pride more than if he _had_ tried.

All her frustration and anger and misery bubble up, and she clutches his jacket around her skinny frame as she snarls, "Am I not _good enough_ for you, _dear husband_?" The words fall from her tongue as if by their own accord, and suddenly she's fuming, wanting to scream and beat the walls of this prison until her hands bleed, if only she can be freed.

Enjolras' gaze snaps to her own, and she thinks that it's the first time he's ever looked her in the eyes. He looks resigned, and just as miserable as he dejectedly responds, "It doesn't seem right…. We – we don't even know each other. And you're just a child." He mutters the last part, more to himself than to her, returning his gaze to the floor, to the walls, to anywhere but her.

"A child?" she echoes incredulously, now sure that _this_ is by far the biggest insult of the night. "I'm not that much younger than you," she reminds him.

"I know, I–"

"Does your _child_ wife not please you, sir?" Eponine asks mockingly. Unable to stop herself, she hears the words spilling from her lips in a torrent of anger and contempt. "Do you prefer, then, the bodies of your knights to the body of your virgin bride? Would you prefer that I were one of them, instead?"

She's not sure what she's doing, exactly. She doesn't want him to touch her, doesn't want him anywhere _near_ her, in fact, but his rejection stings, and she resents him for it, and for the wedding, and everything that's gone wrong in her life.

Furthermore, she isn't sure why she's mocking him in this way. She once saw Montparnasse kissing another man, and had thought nothing of it. It was simply another way of life where she was from. But she knows nothing about her new husband, aside from the fact that his friends revere him, and she wants nothing more than to hurt him, to make him feel as bad and as angry as she does. It's the only way she knows to get a rise out of him, and her blood is screaming for a confrontation. She just wants to _fight_, to prove that she's not some helpless, brainless little girl. She wants him to know that she did not consent to any of this.

She hates him.

He is angry; she can see that much, as his eyes dart back to her face, and suddenly she's afraid she's gone too far. He strides across the room, and her heart pounds, and she's afraid she's done it, goaded him into attacking her, and she regrets her words.

She tries not to cry as he pushes her off balance; she falls to her rump on the soft bed, and he pulls her leg straight. She starts to kick him off, prepared to scream, but his grip is vice-like on her ankle and he reaches up her leg. She tries to pull away again, but freezes when he yanks the ribbon free from her thigh and releases her, turning away.

Eponine sits up slowly, regarding his back suspiciously. His knuckles are white around the token, and after a tense moment, he lets it fall to the floor. Without another word or another glance in her direction, he retreats behind the changing screen, and emerges a few moments later in his nightclothes and approaches the bed. He refuses to look at her, and she watches in surprise as he slips under the blankets, and covers his face with his hands as he lies back, letting out an exasperated sigh.

"No one has to know," he murmurs. "We'll tell them whatever we must, and I'll show them the ribbon if they want." He looks at her then, where she sits in the same disheveled state he left her in when he freed the ribbon from her thigh. "I don't want this anymore than you do, but we don't have a choice. It's done. We have to figure out a way to make this work, Eponine." He sounds, resigned, broken, small.

She suddenly feels a little guilty. Since they had met, it had been clear that he was no happier about any of this than she; perhaps she should be kinder. He was right, they had no choice, they could only move forward.

She climbs into the other side of the bed, thankful that it's so large, and hoping that he recognizes the gesture as a bit of a peace offering.

He doesn't look at her as he whispers, cheeks flushing once again, "We'll have to… eventually… we won't have a choice. It's our duty. But for now, maybe it's better that we get to know one another first. We'll lie as long as it takes," he resolves, voice growing stronger as he speaks.

Eponine feels the lump form in her throat, and turns to her side, facing away from him, refusing to answer. Moments later, he extinguishes the lantern, and she's happy to be enveloped in darkness again.

When the tears fall, she is careful to keep her breathing even. She can't let him know.

When she wakes the following morning, after a night of nightmares and restless sleep, he's already gone.


	4. part iv

_part iv_

The weeks drag by, the days grow shorter and colder, and nothing changes between Eponine and Enjolras. If anything, it gets worse. They fight like children; she is willing to admit that she _mostly_ instigates, frequently antagonizing him just to get a rise out of him, because feeling anger is better than feeling nothing.

When they aren't arguing, they're ignoring one another in private, and merely tolerating one another in public. For her part, Eponine mostly keeps to his – _their_, she reminds herself – chambers or explores the city with Cosette or Musichetta.

It's more beautiful than she first thought, but the city remains strange and foreign and unwelcome, and she cannot come to call it home. She loves going to the cliffs and looking out at the world stretched bare before her, and wonders more than once about what would happen if she jumped.

Eponine stays far away from the temple, unless she is required to go to continue her healer's training. She renounced the gods after her wedding, and the priestesses here, luckily, don't pressure her. It's the one good thing about the move, they don't know her like those who raised her, and generally leave her be.

She writes regular letters to her younger sister and brothers, but cannot say her true feelings – who knows who is reading the letters when they leave her hands? So instead she writes about mundane topics and hopes that at least Azelma will catch on to the underlying misery. She misses them desperately.

Eventually, she begins to establish uneasy friendships with some of Enjolras' friends – Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire, and especially Marius. It isn't long before she realizes she's fallen hard for the kind, young knight. It's stupid, she knows, because she's already married and bound to Enjolras, but her heart still speeds up when she sees him and she finds herself distracted by thoughts of him in her lonesome moments.

After a few weeks of pining after him in vain, knowing that he cannot give her what she wants because of Enjolras, she discovers his feelings for Cosette. In fact, he comes to her, asking for advice on how to approach the young handmaiden. She does her best, but it doesn't stop her from bursting into heartbroken tears when she's alone in her chambers later.

To her utter disdain, Enjolras enters. She hastily wipes at her eyes and turns away from him. The temperature of the room seems to have dropped a few degrees with his entrance, and Eponine can tell he's unhappy with her about _something_.

He says nothing, just stomps and huffs around the room, preparing for bed. Finally, when her tears are more under control, she rounds on him. "What's your problem?" she snaps, albeit a bit more harshly than she intended.

A muscle in his clenched jaw jumps, and he turns to her, his eyes stony. "Marius?" he asks. "What were you _thinking_, Eponine? Like it or not, you're married to _me_. But you've gone and made a fool out of me, and an even bigger one out of yourself."

"What are you talking about?" she asks breathlessly, recoiling a bit.

"_Everyone_ knows about your little crush on him. And you know what that means? That they'll figure out that we still haven't consummated the marriage!"

Eponine felt her face blanche. The priestesses would come, then, and _watch_ them.

"It's just a silly little crush," she murmurs, suddenly devoid of the energy and desire to defend herself.

"I don't care, Eponine," he snaps, "I don't care _who_ you pine after or what you do here, as long as you're _secretive_ about it and respectful of our marriage. We have a duty to the people, to the _gods_, and you're betraying that. You're betraying _me_!"

Anger burns to life within her chest. "Well at least he's _kind_ to me!" she retorts. "You've never said a nice word to me. You treat me like I'm some kind of idiot child, going about your business with your friends and ignoring my existence altogether. Has it never occurred to you that I had to leave everything behind to come here to marry you? Against my will? Have you never given thought to what I was forced to give up in order to come share your bed? Of _course_ I gravitate towards the man who treats me well. He treats me like a human, like a friend, not like a disgusting piece of dead weight you were forced to take on! I _hate_ it here! _I hate it_, and I hate you and I hate everything about this, but you've never even spared my feelings a second thought!"

Enjolras blinks at her, stunned by her outburst, by her confessions, and Eponine realizes her cheeks are wet again with tears. She stands then, turning away from him, humiliated and frustrated, as she grabs her coat and shoes, and running to the door.

"Where are you going?" he demands. His voice is still hard with anger, but now he sounds a little lost and confused as well.

"For a walk," she snaps, voice cold and thick with tears, pulling on the shoes and coat and hurriedly slamming the door behind her.

Her hood is low on her face as she practically runs from the castle and through the streets; she doesn't even realize where she's going until she finds herself outside the walls and halfway to the forest.

She wipes angry tears that won't stop falling from her cheeks, afraid they'll freeze in the cold, and breathes in deeply. The icy air stings her lungs, and she feels her head clear. It's nice to be back in the woods, beneath the moon, where she can be free again.

_I'm going home_, she decides. Back to Azelma and her brothers. Back to where she belongs, and away from this farce of a marriage and this miserable city and everything she has been forced into over the last few months.

She isn't sure how long she walks, but as the frigid air slowly washes over her and cools her temper, Eponine begins to realize that what took a week on horseback will take much longer on foot. Furthermore, she has no food, no shelter, and all that she knows is that home is southwest – she's not even sure of the direction from which she came, much less the one in which she's heading. She's lost, and with heavy snowfall covering her tracks from whence she came, has no idea of how to go back or proceed.

She keeps going, though, unwilling to give in. It's a competition against herself, against the elements and the fake gods and her stupid husband, and she _will_ win.

At first, the falling snow is a delight. But as she keeps walking, slower and slower, her toes begin to hurt, and eventually lose feeling, as well as her fingers. She's shivering, and tired, and can no longer feel her nose or lips or ears.

It's the first time she's ever felt fear in the woods at night. She's in her element, truly, beneath night skies in the winter. It's never occurred to her that it would betray her like this.

Still, Eponine keeps moving, too unwilling to stop and too stubborn to panic. But with each step she grows more and more tired, more and more cold, and eventually finds herself searching for a protected area to stop and rest. She settles on an overturned tree, which provides some protection from the wind, and finds her eyelids drooping. She's exhausted and can no longer feel her body.

The night drags on, and eventually shivering turns into acceptance of her fate. The moon is covered by snow clouds, and she's never felt so alone. She just wants an end to all of her misery.

She will die here, she slowly realizes, but the thought is not unwelcome. It will mean freedom, though she regrets never being able to see her siblings again.

Everything blurs, and Eponine is unsure how long she rests there, but slowly becomes aware of someone calling her name. At first, she thinks it's a hallucination, but then one of Enjolras' friends – Bahorel, perhaps – enters her limited, darkening line of sight, and she's lifted from her haven and into a saddle. She is limp against him, and wonders if she imagined fighting him before giving in.

Then, she becomes aware of a shock of golden hair rushing toward her, a thick, fur cloak wrapping around her shoulders, and someone cradling her against a hard chest. As her vision focuses, she realizes she's collapsed into Enjolras' arms, that he's holding her tightly and calling her name.

Her tired eyes labor to meet his, but she sees the relief in them, and somewhere in the back of her mind she wonders what he sees in her own. Death, probably. Something inside her hopes it's not relief; she's much too stubborn to give him that.

He's stroking her head, rubbing her cold fingers between his warm hands and blowing hot air onto them. "What were you thinking?" he cries. "You could've died!"

Eponine ignores him, feeling her eyes growing heavy. They must have fluttered closed, because suddenly there's an acute stinging on her cheek, and he's shouting at her to stay awake. Then, somehow, she's on his horse, tight in his arms, and they're racing back to the city. The whole way, he's shouting in her ear, working to keep her awake, and she tries, but all she wants is to sleep.

Then they're in the stable, and he's swinging her easily into his arms and racing her through the castle and her brain is sluggishly catching up, wondering how such a slight man can be so strong.

There's the shrieking of Musichetta and Cosette afterwards, Eponine realizes, as she is lifted into a scalding bath and given spirits that help clear her head a bit. Her vision swims back into focus after that, and she's vaguely aware that she's behind a changing screen for privacy. She can hear Enjolras urgently, lowly, speaking to someone, but she can't tell to whom or make out his words.

The feeling begins returning to her extremities, and she soon finds herself being lifted from the bath and dressed in heavy clothing, then Enjolras is lifting her himself and carrying her to the bed. He smells nice, she realizes, and it isn't too uncomfortable in his arms. Musichetta places a hot bedpan between the sheet and covers to warm her feet, and Cosette covers her in heavier blankets.

Then she and Enjolras are alone.

"Stay awake," he repeats, and she hears it just on the edge of her consciousness.

She's not sure why she listens, struggling to stay awake for him, but she does, watching him slowly remove his clothing and, for the first time, revealing a surprisingly chiseled bare chest. Eponine wonders if he thinks she won't remember.

Then he climbs into bed with her, sitting her up enough to peel off the heavy layers that Cosette wrapped around her, murmuring something about how body heat will warm her faster. He tosses the discarded items away, and takes her in his arms.

Eponine feels his intense heat immediately, and slowly realizes that it's the warmest she's felt all night. Her consciousness begins to ebb, and she hears him speaking but can't make out the words, only aware of his warmth and how surprisingly comfortable it is to have her cheek pressed into his burning chest and her icy hands trapped against his abdomen and his fingers rubbing heat into her arms.

She wants to ask him why, to try to understand what's happening, but sleep claims her before she can form the words on her tongue.

When she wakes, he's all around her, and Eponine's never been so warm. She wonders if it were all a dream – the woods, the snow, the cold that seeped even deeper than her bones, lying there in bed with him, wrapped tightly in his arms.

Her stomach churns as she slowly comes to, realizing that now Enjolras is wearing a shirt, but she's still using him as a pillow. She briefly considers pretending to be asleep until he goes away, but she'll have to face him eventually – he _is_ her husband, after all. And if it weren't for he and his friends, she'd certainly be dead.

"I wondered how long you would sleep," he quips, and she _feels_ his voice rumbling through his chest rather than hearing it rolling from his lips.

She rolls over slowly, looking up at him from his shoulder; his expression is mild, almost amused, but his eyes betray his concern. She's never noticed before just how blue they are.

"How long was I asleep?" she asks, wincing at the raspy sound of her voice.

"Two and a half days," he replies, then asks, "How are you feeling?"

Eponine takes a moment to let consciousness sink in before answering, "Warm." Surprisingly, she isn't embarrassed by her admission, even though it's because of _his_ heat.

"Good," he says, absently rubbing her bare arm. Then, "Eponine, _what_ were you thinking?"

She's silent for a long moment, not sure that she wants to answer this and start another fight, not when she actually feels safe and _content_ for once, so she just shrugs against him, completely aware of how the action only exaggerates how his arm encircles her shoulders.

"You scared me," he admits, and she is shocked by the lost edge his voice takes on.

"I didn't think you'd care," she mutters, looking away from him and propping her chin on her hand, which rests heavily on his stupid chest.

"Of course I care!" he exclaims indignantly, sounding disgusted. "Why would you think I wouldn't?"

"You're angry," she replies resignedly, suddenly feeling tired and cold again.

"I'm frustrated," he counters, "And you're avoiding the question."

Eponine twists up to look him in the face, resting on her elbow, with the full strength of her most scathing glare meeting his own challenging eyes. "You've never spared a thought for me or my feelings before, what was I _supposed_ to think?"

Enjolras opens his mouth to respond, his brow furrowed, but promptly clamps it shut. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and she's surprised that he seems to have thought twice about fighting with her again.

She says nothing, just waiting and glaring, as he looks away, taking a deep breath through his nose. "You were right," he murmurs, jaw clenched and lips tight.

Eponine almost falls over in shock at his admittance. "I'm sorry?"

He turns to her again; this time he's the one glaring. "Don't be smug," he snaps. Before she can reply, he repeats, "You were right. I wasn't fair to you. I was so wrapped up in my own misery and my anger at you for antagonizing me that I never stopped to think about how hard it must have been for you to come here. I never thought that you were as much a victim in all of this as I; it was much easier to blame you, to have someone _tangible_ to hold responsible, than to befriend you. I should never have alienated you the way I did. I'm sorry."

She just stares at him, astonished. The whole thing was quick, murmured in an awkward string of words as he stared at the wall, but she can tell by the slight flush in his cheeks that he means it.

After a few silent, awkward moments, Enjolras raises his eyes to hers. "I'm sorry," he says again, his voice and expression sincere, even pained. "I shouldn't have caused you pain. Just don't run away again – at least, not like that. I couldn't bear anything happening to you."

For a moment, Eponine is tempted to demand if he doesn't want anything to happen to her because it would mean the complete and total destruction of his reputation. She even opens her mouth to ask, but something stops her in time, and she snaps her mouth shut before she can antagonize him more. His sincerity is evident, and she shouldn't try to provoke him, especially when he seems to be trying so hard to make peace with her.

So instead, she murmurs a quiet, but genuine, "Thank you." She hopes he understands that it's as much for his apology as it is for saving her life.

Another awkward moment passes between them, and it seems to Eponine that they are almost measuring one another up, so she clears her throat and admits, "I think we got off on the wrong foot."

A small smile breaks out on his face, and she can't remember having seen it before. It's nice. "I daresay we did, Eponine."

She smiles back, thinking that this is the most he has ever said her name to her face.

"I'd offer you my hand to shake," he quips, giving her a lopsided smirk, "But you're kind of laying on my arm."

Eponine's grin grows to meet his, and in response, she just settles back onto her side, using his chest as a pillow once more. She pushes down the feeling of contentment that instantly rises as his fingers absently tangle in her long hair.

"You could apologize for the part you played in all of this too, you know," he remarks after a few moments of silence. He's still teasing, but she can detect just the slightest edge of seriousness on his tone.

"I could, but I'm not going to," she replies without thinking, her tone still light.

His fingers falter in her hair, and she worries she's angered him again. But after a moment, he responds, sounding almost amused, and more weary and exasperated than angry, "Are you always going to fight me like this?"

Eponine taps her fingers absently against his abdomen as she replies, "Yes." Her voice is quiet, deadly serious. "Even when I have nothing else, I will fight. Always."

Enjolras sighs. "I know," he says, resigned. "And I'll be here to help you."

"I don't need to be rescued," she snaps, a bit harsher than she intended, sitting up to glare at him and silently daring him to bring up the previous night.

The corners of his mouth twitch and his eyes and voice are light with amusement as he holds up his hands in defense and replies, "Wouldn't dream of it."


	5. part v

_part v_

Things change between them after that.

There are days when he brings her flowers, and soon their chambers are bright and colorful.

Most nights, he takes her on a tour of a different part of the city. They like to go on walks, and soon she knows his home better than she knows her own.

They go for rides during the days out of the city walls. He teaches her how to fight with a sword, how to shoot a bow and arrow. She shows him how to throw knives and _always_ hit the target. They explore the woods, and she teaches him about plants and healing.

They talk.

She tells him about her brothers and sister, about how her parents kept having children, hoping to be as lucky with the others as they were with their oldest child. She tells him about how awful her childhood was, that she wasn't allowed to _have_ one between the priestesses and her parents, and that she wanted nothing more than to change that for her siblings. She tells him how everyone has always believed that she is a goddess born into a human body, but she never has, and now she's no longer certain that the gods even exist.

He listens attentively, and in turn, tells her how his mother died when he was ten, and how his father stopped being his father in their private lives. He tells her about how he became friends with the boys who had become his family. He tells her his dreams for the future, when his father is no longer on the throne. She learns he is passionate and fiery and equal parts charming and terrible, and she finds she likes that about him.

There are mornings when she wakes up in his arms. She isn't always certain how she gets there (though sometimes at night, when he comes in late from meetings with his friends and thinks she's asleep, he'll pull her to him as crawls into bed), yet still she wakes with her head on his chest, or his arm thrown over her breasts and his mouth on her shoulder, or her back pressed against his torso and his arm wrapped around her waist. Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night and slips into his embrace, hoping he'll think it an accident in the morning, wondering whether that's how she winds up there otherwise.

Yet old habits die hard, and he still easily angers her, but she learns to stop herself from antagonizing him. He's offered her the olive branch, and has been trying his hardest to make her happier there with him. And when she finds herself seeking confrontation when she's frustrated or homesick, she reminds herself that, despite her vehement protestations that she is no damsel in distress, he saved her life. So she tries to be easier on him, because she owes him everything, yet he has never once made any attempt to control or to cage her.

And eventually, by acting like friends, they _become_ friends.

Cosette and Marius are married a week before Eponine's seventeenth birthday, and, to her surprise, Enjolras holds her hand throughout the ceremony. He makes her laugh at dinner, and dances with her at the celebration afterwards. His hands brush her waist and elbows and arms when he stands next to her, and when she's on the other side of the room chatting with Cosette and Musichetta, she keeps catching his eye.

Her friends comment on the change, ask if they've finally consummated the marriage. Eponine confesses the truth to them, and goes to bed that night, and the next several, thinking about him and about their future. She finds herself wondering when she stopped having feelings for Marius and started noticing when Enjolras' touch lingers for a moment longer than necessary, when their legs or hands brush, when he flashes a smile at her.

She wonders when she started _noticing_ him.

The celebrations for Eponine's birthday and the Winter Solstice are simultaneous, just as they are with Enjolras, though rather than decorations of summer flowers and bright ribbons and the majority of the festivities taking place outdoors, it is the interior of the castle that's decorated with pine boughs and mistletoe and ribbons that are silver, blue, white, and red. Yule logs burn in every fireplace, and fresh snow has turned the city into a fairy tale. The scents of mulled cider and _vin chaud_ and spiced Yule cookies and cakes waft through the castle for days, and it's like a happy dream.

At the _grande_ _fête_ on the twenty-first, there is much dancing, singing, feasting, toasting. She is plied with gifts and mulled cider and _vin chaud_, dances with Enjolras' friends and his father and finally Enjolras himself, whispers with Cosette and Musichetta and chats with some of the other court women and handmaids.

She finds herself worn out quickly, and when she sits for a moment, trying to cool down after all the dancing and the hot wine, he corners her, pressing a small box into her hands. He looks abashed, she notices, as she smiles up at him, feeling a pleasant tingling spreading to her limbs.

"For the solstice," he murmurs, watching almost anxiously as she pulls off the lid. Inside the box is nestled a pewter necklace, with a small moon and sun fused together. "I had it made for you," she hears him say as she gently picks up the pendant, examining it with wonder.

"It's beautiful," she replies, touched, meeting his eyes with a genuine smile. She runs her thumb over the rough hammer marks, then pulls it from the box, handing it to him as she pulls back her hair. "Thank you, Enjolras," she says as he fastens the latch. His fingers brush the knob at the base of her spine, and she shivers.

"Oh, and happy birthday," he adds, looking out into the party in the direction of some sort of commotion.

Eponine follows his line of sight in confusion, and almost falls out of her chair.

Making their way to the center of the room are none other than Azelma and Gavroche, the eldest two of Eponine's younger siblings.

She leaps from the chair, nearly knocking it over, both Enjolras and the necklace forgotten, and launches herself at her siblings, who race to her just as quickly. She doesn't notice Musichetta or Cosette's happy tears, doesn't see how the people, nor how Enjolras nor the king nor his friends, stare at the scene, but she reaches them and pulls them into her arms and bursts into tears.

They leave the festivities a short time later to catch up, and before long Cosette and Musichetta join them in Azelma's new chambers. They've come permanently, she says; Enjolras organized it himself, though their awful parents wouldn't agree to letting the twins come too.

Eponine stays late into the night, and when she finally makes her way to her chambers, it's with the highest spirits she can remember in a long time. She changes quickly, trying not to wake her husband, but when she climbs into bed he turns over and looks at her through bleary, still-half-asleep eyes.

Enjolras pulls her to him before she can even lie down, and murmurs, "I didn't think you'd be back tonight. I thought you'd stay with them," against her hair.

In response, Eponine rolls over and before she can stop herself, plants a tender kiss on his cheek. "This is truly the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me," she tells him, reaching up and running her fingers – for the first time – through the golden curls above his ear. "Thank you," she whispers, before noticing he's already fallen asleep again. She makes a mental note to thank him again in the morning.

She rolls back over, pressing her back against his chest, and he tightens his hold of her in his sleep, and Eponine realizes she kind of likes being held in his arms, and that their bodies do fit together rather perfectly like this.

The weeks following the Solstice are a blur for Eponine, who passes them largely with Azelma and Gavroche.

It's wonderful having them around, and they integrate quickly into Eponine's life: Gavroche connects easily with Enjolras and all his friends, and rarely leaves them be. Azelma is much more shy, but even she establishes herself quickly among them.

Eponine is thrilled to have them, though she misses the twins desperately, and it's not long before she starts seeing them _all_ – her siblings, Cosette and Musichetta, Enjolras' friends, Enjolras himself – as her family.

She's happy, and time passes. The days grow slightly warmer, slightly longer. Still, her relationship with Enjolras is anything but simple. Since the arrival of her siblings, things have been awkward, to say the least.

Besides the night of their wedding and silly public formalities, they've never shared such an intimate moment as they did when Eponine kissed his cheek. Part of her hopes he'd forgotten, but part of her is constantly reminded of the fact that they still have yet to consummate their marriage, and it will have to happen eventually.

Enjolras is clearly thinking the same thing, though, as he's seemed almost _shy_ around her since. She wonders if it's her fault, for kissing him, or if there's more going on in his head than she's privy to.

He doesn't quite _avoid_ her, but when he catches her eye, he swiftly looks away. When their hands brush, he apologizes. If he comes into their chambers late at night and, pulling off his shirt and preparing for bed, catches her staring at him over her book, he actually _blushes_.

She doesn't understand it, nor does she understand how he can be so timid, yet sometimes she'll be chasing Gavroche around the courtyard or in the stables and she'll suddenly feel his eyes on her. She'll turn to look at him, and find him staring at her challengingly, something strange and dark that she doesn't recognize in his eyes. It makes _her_ want to flush, in turn, but she refuses to give him that.

It's equally baffling that Eponine, one day, finds that she looks for reasons to touch him – his hands, his arms, his knees, even his hair. Then she realizes that she's been thinking of him as _her husband_ – something she had only ever done previously to mock him.

Suffice it to say, she's plenty confused, and no longer sure where either of them stand – with one another, and with their own feelings.

But time still passes, and the world warms ever so slightly, and the snows stop falling so heavily, and it's possible to go outside and have fun again.

They are finally able to go out on horseback again, and although things remain inexplicably weird between them, they both are thrilled to be liberated from the confines of the castle. Eponine desperately missed riding like this during the long months spent indoors; it's a bit like flying, she thinks, and is the closest thing to what freedom must feel like.

Eventually, they stop to rest the horses (though Eponine is certain Enjolras is just bitter that she beat him in their race), and find themselves stuck in yet another awkward, tense silence. Tired of playing this game of uncertainty and confusion, Eponine does the only thing she can think of: she throws a snowball at his face.

At first, he's surprised. But a grin quickly grows across his face, and he launches a handful of snow at her. Eponine shrieks, getting to her feet and running from him, even as she tosses ill-formed snowballs back.

In only moments, it's devolved into all out war, and eventually she's hiding in the woods as he searches for her, shouting all the while about how this will be his payback for beating him on horseback.

She keeps a close eye from her hiding spot, and the moment he's close enough, Eponine scoops up a large handful of snow, and, sneaking up behind it, jams it down the back of his shirt, leaping away from him and laughing hysterically as he shrieks at the icy intrusion.

She starts running as soon as Enjolras gains some semblance of control, glaring in her direction. She's out of the woods, sprinting, simultaneously laughing, screaming, and shouting taunts at him. He's shouting back, ever closer, doing his best to hide his amusement, and she just shrieks her retorts even louder.

She's almost to where they've left their things – as though that's some sort of safe zone – when his arms wrap around her waist and she's being tackled into a snowdrift. As they fall, he turns to cushion her landing and not fall on top of her, but he allows his momentum as they hit the snow to roll them over just once. He's kneeling over her then, pinning her down, and they're huddled together deep into the snowdrift without even realizing.

Eponine is all at once hysterically laughing, trying to catch her breath, and attempting to recount the look on his face when she dropped snow down his back, and hardly notices his expression shift from mirthful to equal parts pensive and annoyed.

Then he kisses her.

His lips are warm and soft against her cold, chapped ones, and her mind goes blank with shock. It's not a long kiss, nor is it particularly intimate, nor passionate, but the breath has still fled her lungs and she's seeing stars.

When he pulls away, smirking, she realizes her icy hands are tangled in his golden curls.

Enjolras stands then, looking smug and pleased with himself, but her brain is too sluggish to process what happened, and she just remains on the ground, staring up at him blankly. So he grabs her hand and pulls her to her feet, and she's suddenly aware of how close his body is to hers. Eponine realizes she's soaking wet from the snow, and so is he, and they're both shivering. She involuntarily remembers the last time she was freezing, how he stripped half naked and held her, and she flushes.

Still, he doesn't let go of her hand as she manages to stammer out a question _almost_ resembles, "What?"

His grin only grows as he cheekily replies, "I had to shut you up somehow."

Since he kissed her, things have changed. Yet again.

However, this time, the tension between them is less awkward and more contemplative, more curious.

They both are shy around one another, with cheeks flushing when fingers brush and jumping when sparks fly between shoulders and arms and knees that bump.

The hardest part, though, is certainly morning. Eponine now _always_ wakes up in his arms, usually with her back pressed into his chest and his arm tight around her waist. His golden curls tickle her cheek, and his breath is hot on her neck and his fingers are, more often than not, entwined with hers. She can _feel_ him against her rear, his morning desire that's awake well before he is, resulting in both awkwardness and curiosity for both of them.

Usually the second Enjolras wakes up and realizes it, he practically leaps from the bed, hurrying to get dressed and run out of the room, only to be so shy with her when he sees her later. For her part, Eponine is left with a strange longing coursing through her veins, and confusion over whether he's reacting to her or if it's just his body. Then she wonders the same of herself.

It's all become a guessing game, on her part. They've fallen into this pattern with their marriage: one big step forward, two small steps back. Every time they make a little progress, they're both left so confused and awkward that there's no way to move forward again. She hates it.

Still, she would undoubtedly call him her best friend. They tell each other everything, do nearly everything together, and their friendship occasionally results in moments of overwhelming intimacy; the kind that is _so_ much more than friendly.

Eponine realizes one day that she would gladly move forward with him; being his wife is not as horrible as it used to be, and now that they're so close, she's come to love him deeply as a friend. And, especially since he kissed her, she's found that her heart speeds up when he enters a room, and her temperature rises when they share private moments while surrounded by other people, and she really likes waking up in his arms in the morning. She likes the heat that his touch and gaze arouse in her body and her blood, she likes his voice, clear and strong and calm, in her ears just before she sleeps and as she slowly wakes.

Yet, she's unsure of Enjolras' feelings. She knows that he is very fond of her, but she doesn't know if he has feelings for her or is just being affectionate. He's never been the type, as long as she's known him, to offer uncalculated affection; everything he does is deliberate, after having properly considered every possible outcome. He's left, then, to do everything he chooses with passion and enthusiasm. So his gentle touches, the way he blushes when she "accidentally" flashes too much skin as she prepares for bed, the sleepy half smiles he offers her in the mornings, and the private glances he shares with her when they see one another throughout the day can't mean _nothing_. But whether it means that he has feelings for her is an entirely other thing.

Furthermore, Eponine isn't entirely sure why she's so worried about how he feels. They're married, either way, and they're going to have to consummate the marriage _eventually_. She's recently been thinking about it more and more, about how she kind of wants to, to know what it's like and what _he's_ like; how, after all, she _is_ his wife and he _is_ supposed to be hers just as much as she is supposed to be his.

But for some reason, Eponine finds that she wouldn't want to take that step if Enjolras didn't at least feel marginally the same. Though what her feelings are, she doesn't know; she can hardly tell what she wants, much less what he feels. All that she knows is tension and confusion, never ending, suspending them in some complicated web of uncertainty and ever-changing emotions.

Yet the tension cannot last forever, even though it's all she's known for weeks and weeks.

One morning, Eponine finds herself waking slowly, warm and content and comfortable in Enjolras' arms. His fingers are ghosting along the skin of her arms, and his hot breath on her shoulders sends involuntary shivers down her spine. She keeps her breathing steady and her eyes halfway shut, enjoying being held this way too much to let him know she's awake – the second he realizes that she's no longer sleeping, he'll be too embarrassed by his own body and its reactions to keep holding her.

Still, she shifts against him, trying to snuggle a little closer "in sleep," and in the process accidentally rubs her rear against his crotch. A strangled noise involuntarily escapes from his throat, and his fingers still, and his whole body tenses against hers.

So she does it again. This time, Enjolras' hand goes to her hip, trying to still her, as he chokes out her name.

And that does it. Eponine feels something within her break, and a moment later, she's rolled over, partially on top of him, her lips locked on his.

Enjolras tries to halfheartedly push her off, but she tightens her grip in his hair and runs her tongue against his bottom lip. He stops fighting her after that, and gives in.

It's been since Montparnasse that Eponine has tasted the inside of a boy's – _man's_ – mouth, but it was never like this with him. Enjolras rolls her over, pinning her beneath him, kissing her passionately, and she decides she likes catching him by surprise, likes it when she takes a risk with him because as ardent as he is about things in every day life, the intensity she's getting from him when he _finally_ lets go of some of the control is nothing short of intoxicating. Plus, even with the morning breath, she likes the way he tastes.

When he grinds his hips against hers, Eponine sees stars, and can't help the moan that escapes her throat. Enjolras' kiss only becomes more passionate with her reaction, and she wonders, as his lips move to her jaw and her neck, if she'll simply keeping heating until she ignites and they burn together.

But suddenly, there's a muffled crash, followed by cursing and the slamming of a door. They leap apart, as though they're doing something they're not meant to be doing, to find Musichetta and another handmaid standing, shocked, at the foot of the bed. A box lies on the floor between them, and Eponine can only assume there was another girl carrying it, but that she dropped it and fled, causing all the noise.

They all stare at one another for a long moment – the young handmaid wide-eyed and embarrassed, Enjolras horrified, and Musichetta smug and smirking at Eponine.

An instant later, Enjolras is up, doing his best to hide his desire from the women, hurrying to grab his clothes and flee the room. There's something almost angry in the set of his shoulders and his countenance as he glares at the floor and walls, though he's still red faced and embarrassed. Despite the awkward circumstances, Eponine takes great pleasure in knowing that his hair, while messy from sleep, is messier still from her hands, and his lips are swollen thanks to her fervor.

The young handmaid stammers her apologies as the golden prince stomps from the room, then transfers them to Eponine, who, in turn, just glares at a still-smirking Musichetta.

Later, she seeks out Musichetta, Cosette, and Azelma, settling with them in the latter's chambers with hot tea and biscuits.

She tells them everything that has happened, and her concerns, and even her desires. Although that kiss was several hours ago, Eponine still feels as though her heart is racing and her body is likely to spontaneously combust. There's a steady burning below her navel that Enjolras put there – a long time ago, granted, but he fanned its embers just that morning, and she knows that no one but he can burn it out.

She admits it all, being sure to berate Musichetta in the process for ruining what was _finally_ some serious progress with him (and Musichetta, though apologetic, is still largely amused by the whole event).

"What are you so worried about?" Cosette asks kindly. "You're already married to him. You'll get there."

Eponine shrugs. "I just want him to feel how I feel when we finally do it."

"And how do you feel?" Musichetta inquires.

"I think she feels sexually frustrated by him," Azelma remarks with a giggle, earning a scathing glare from Eponine.

"I don't know," she replies honestly, looking at Musichetta and pointedly ignoring her still-laughing sister. "I definitely have feelings for him, but I don't know what they are. Worse, I don't know what _his_ feelings are, either."

"Eponine, don't be ridiculous. You're falling for him," Cosette tells her impatiently.

"I think it's safe to say that he likes you, Ep, at least from what I saw this morning," Musichetta remarks.

Eponine throws a pillow at her.

"He likes you, Ep," Azelma adds quietly. "It's not even in question. I can tell on my own, though Feuilly says that the change in him since you ran away and almost _died_ – which you _conveniently_ forgot to tell me – and even more recently is like night and day."

Eponine gives her a pointed look, resenting her sister's reference to the gods that she and Enjolras supposedly are, but Azelma ignores her.

"Is that what Feuilly says?" Cosette asks. "Marius says he's like an entirely new man."

"Joly and Bossuet tell me that he gets all distracted and dreamy, that sometimes he chooses you over whatever he should be doing, and recently he's taken to asking them for advice," Musichetta offers. "Apparently he's gone a few times to my boys to ask about things I do and things they do with me, and he asks a lot of advice of Courfeyrac – never a good idea – but he's a smart boy, Bossuet says he always clears the advice with Combeferre before he actually follows through–."

"What are you doing with Joly and Bossuet?" Eponine interrupts. Turning her accusatory gaze on Azelma, she asks, "And why are you talking to Feuilly about me?"

Three amused faces merely stare back at her, and Eponine scowls.

"Oh, Eponine, don't be angry! Your situation is different from all of ours. We each met our men on our own terms," Cosette says, offering an encouraging and apologetic smile.

Eponine just glares, though her lips twitch in amusement, and Cosette's smile grows.

"Might I remind you that none of you would even have met those boys without me marrying Enjolras?" she sniffs haughtily, sipping tea loudly from her cup.

"Yes, but now we can give you seduction tips," Musichetta retorts. Both Azelma and Cosette nearly spit out their tea, and Eponine just teasingly glares again.

"So – Azelma and Feuilly, and you and Joly _and _Bossuet? Do they each know about – about the other?"

"Of course they do, don't be ridiculous, Eponine," Musichetta scoffs. "I'm not interested in the separately. Well – I mean, I am, I love them both very much, but when we're in bed, I prefer them together."

The admission makes them all flush and giggle, though moments later the topic of conversation swings back easily to Eponine and her _overwhelming_ desire for Enjolras to finally make love to her, and all the seduction advice they can think of from their own experiences.

When they separate a few hours later for dinner, having exhausted all possible topics, Eponine feels better: a little more confident in her own feelings and a little more sure of the fact that he at least has _some_ feelings for her.

She nearly bumps into Enjolras rounding a corner, so lost is she in her afternoon, and flushes when she remembers some of the advice they offered her. He gives her a lopsided grin that makes her heart skip a beat and her stomach flip, and offers her his hand. She takes it, and he pulls her off towards the dining hall for dinner.


	6. part vi

_part vi_

As the days grow longer and warmer, winter finally gives into spring. It's mild, and warm, and the trees have leaves and the flowers have started blooming.

Eponine has never seen Enjolras' home in the spring, but the cliffs are carpeted with wildflowers, peppering the usually green- or snow-covered ground in purples, blues, yellows, reds, whites, and pinks. The sunsets grow more and more glorious with each day, and there are several times a week when Enjolras will wake Eponine and take her to some new spot to watch the sunrise.

Though she misses the intensity of the stars in the winter night's sky and the brightness of the moon lighting her way during the long night hours, the fresh air is wonderful, and the sun on her skin is hot and refreshing. She can wear lighter clothes now, run more easily, pick flowers with her sister and braid them into one another's hair or fashion them into fanciful crowns.

Eponine especially loves returning to her chambers covered in the flowers. Enjolras regards her as though she is a newly discovered creature, something truly amazing to behold and when he remarks that perhaps she is more wild animal than human, she just laughs and dances around him. Still, he eventually helps her pick the flowers out of her tresses, and she shivers when he finishes, and lets his fingers fall from her hair to her shoulders.

She aches for him, for his touch, his kiss, his weight and heat and passion. Yet Enjolras remains stubborn; though he's much less shy, much less awkward, no matter what she tries, she cannot get him to do more than kiss her.

Cosette and Musichetta and Azelma encourage her to talk to him about it, but every time Eponine tries, she gets too scared. It's daunting, to talk to the marble man about something that he used to remind her was "their duty." Sometimes she wonders if he refuses to bring it up, refuses to give in to her, because he is just as confused about what it will mean for them as she.

They are friends, first and foremost. Married friends. It's a complicated situation, and Eponine often thinks about what might happen if they gave in to their feelings and ignored reason. She longs for him to kiss her, to caress her, to hold her in public. She longs for him in a physical sense, and longs for his friendship. But giving in to those urges – and she knows that he has begun to feel them too – would potentially ruin all the good, unromantic progress they've made.

Still, the tension remains high, and although they find themselves semi-frequently locked in an embrace as they kiss passionately, he never lets it go any farther.

But as the weather grows hotter, so do their tempers. They begin to fight again, and though it's different than before when they were miserable with being married, it's just as bad. Eponine knows that they're both frustrated and confused, and there are times when she is certain that they're both still too young for such a complicated situation, despite the fact that she has friends back in her home city that married younger than her and are already mothers.

Neither knows what to do, nor do their friends.

Soon, their arguments go from periodic to almost daily, almost continuous, and are about everything and nothing – Enjolras being too loud as he prepares for the day while Eponine tries to sleep, what they should do together, whether they should spend more time together or more time apart, Eponine's complete rejection of the Gods and Enjolras' belief in duty and service to everyone else before himself, before his _wife_.

They are breaking, slowly falling apart, and no one knows how to fix it.

Then one day – a day delightfully devoid of quarrels and screaming matches – the sea wind blows in a change that proves to be both their saving grace and their demise.

Eponine is running around with Gavroche and Azelma in the fields outside the city gates when Grantaire gallops up. The young cynic is devoid of his characteristic smirk, but it does not stop Eponine from teasing him. She's quite fond of the young man, even though he tends to find a little too much comfort in the bottle and not enough in his art.

"Have you come to join us, R?" she asks in a singsong voice. "Why have you not brought Jehan with you?" When she catches sight of his unhappy expression, she grins. "Oh come off it, it's not like you two are a well-kept secret–."

"Ep," he says, cutting her off. His voice is uncharacteristically serious, and Eponine feels a flutter of worry in her chest. "Enjolras needs to see you, now. It's an emergency."

She stands immediately, without question, feeling the panic rise. She accepts Grantaire's arm, allowing him to help her swing up behind him on his horse, and quickly orders Azelma and Gavroche to head back to the castle.

Not fifteen minutes later, Eponine is bursting through the door where Enjolras holds his meetings with his friends, Grantaire right on her heels.

The tension in the room is nearly tangible, and Enjolras is standing, sleeves sloppily rolled up and arms braced against the table, staring down at a map with a clenched jaw. He barely glances up as Eponine enters.

"Good, Eponine, you're here," he says absently, still staring down before him. Eponine doesn't even flatter herself by hoping he's actually happy to see her.

She goes to his side, standing close and leaning over his shoulder to stare down with him at the map. She knows he doesn't like showing her very much affection in public, even in front of his friends, but there's something almost magnetic about him, and she can't help wanting to be physically close to him.

She's distracted for only a moment by the veins popping out in his tense arms, before she manages to focus on the map. "But that's the city," she remarks, confused.

"Yes," Enjolras replies impatiently, nudging her back a few paces. Eponine gets the hint, and gives him space, reeling from this form of rejection as though he had struck her. She refuses to let her cheeks flush in front of his friends, refuses to let anyone know that he just bruised her pride, even as anger bristles beneath her flesh.

He finally turns to her, looking at her with a gaze that doesn't quite reach her, as though he's far off somewhere else and only going through the motions in this room. She forgets her irritation for a moment, and feels the dread build again.

"Pack your things, pack light," he orders her in a dismissive, businesslike way.

Eponine feels her mind go blank. "What?" she asks.

Combeferre clears his throat, shooting a pointed look at Enjolras, who doesn't even seem to notice. "Eponine, this morning, the guards spotted sails on the horizon. Black ones."

Puzzled, she turns back to her husband. "I don't understand," she tells him.

Enjolras sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and sitting heavily in his chair. "It's an armada. They'll be here by daybreak tomorrow." He finally, _finally_ meets her eyes, really seeing her, and, apparently gleaning from her expression that she still is confused, he simply tells her, "We're under attack."

Now it all makes sense.

He gives her a serious look, and suddenly she sees a leader, a warrior, a _king_ – not just a marble statue come to life, not just a young man who burns with passion as hot as the sun and captures its rays in his golden hair, not just a boy who can't decide on his feelings and is afraid to touch her.

"The people _must_ be out of the city when the siege starts. And I need you to lead them," he tells her, standing up and staring at his map again. His authoritative tone begs no response; it's a direct order, not a request. Eponine understands that. However, she takes orders from no one, least of all Enjolras.

"And what if I refuse?" she asks, feeling angry all over again.

He shoots her a threatening glare. "It's not up for negotiation," he replies tightly, his tone a warning to her should she continue pushing him.

She can see he's busy, trying to make plans, trying to figure out a way to best defend his home, his people. She understands he's stressed, that he's short on time, that he must be prepared. But complacency has never been her style, and she's not about to start now.

"It is because I say it is," she snaps. She hears someone snort – probably Bahorel or Grantaire – as Enjolras' furious gaze snaps up to meet hers. She just remains calm, despite the angry heat that's quickly rising in her blood, and holds her chin high. "I'm not going anywhere," she announces.

Enjolras stalks out from behind the table, coming to stand in front of her. "Yes, you are," he replies, his voice tense with barely-contained rage.

"Where are we supposed to go?" she challenges, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room, but only looking into his own. Their ocean-blue depths are dark and angry, but she will not let him win.

"Gods' sakes, Eponine, take them to your own city," he snaps. "Get them away from here. It is our duty to protect–."

Something in Eponine's chest bursts, and suddenly she's more livid than she can ever remember being in her entire life. More than when she was told that she was being married off to a strange man, more than when she actually married him, more than their explosive fights had ever left her.

"Our duty? _Our duty_? Are you _really _going to play that card, Enjolras? You're going to preach to me _again_ about duty, when you're much too afraid to actually follow through with the things you've been lecturing me about since our wedding night?"

No one breathes, no one moves following her outburst. Enjolras' face is contorted with rage, and he just gapes at her, apparently not able to actually speak. He takes a threatening step towards her, and she just stands her ground, noticing a few of the boys stirring against the walls, apparently afraid he might strike her.

"I don't have time for this, Eponine." His voice is frighteningly calm, though the fury in his eyes is stronger than ever. "We're done talking about this. You're leaving at midnight."

Eponine opens her mouth to argue, but is cut off by Combeferre. "Enjolras," he says, his voice strong and clear and forceful.

Enjolras turns his wrath on this man, one of his dearest, oldest friends, who meets his infuriated gaze with a strong, challenging one of his own.

However, it's Courfeyrac who finally speaks, stepping out into the center of the room that is already proving to be the first battleground of this war. "Enjolras," he says entreatingly, quietly, "Be kinder to her. We know what you want us to do, we can organize things easily enough without you. You need to talk to Eponine, in private, without all of us looking on. She is your wife, after all," he adds, grinning at Enjolras' rueful and irritated expression, "she deserves some of your attention before you go off to battle."

Enjolras turns back to her, and she stares back at him evenly. "I don't have time for this," he repeats, enunciating each word, hands balled into fists that shake with frustration and anger.

"Nor do I," she snaps, "I have to prepare to fight, because I'm not going anywhere."

And Epoinine turns on her heel and storms out, both satisfied and angered further by the frustrated cry that tears from his throat as the door slams behind her. She isn't even aware of the angry tears that have begun falling from her eyes until she's halfway back to their chambers.

Cosette is there when she arrives, looking concerned and frightened, but her expression melts into one of sympathy when she sees her. She tries to take Eponine into her arms, but she pushes past, ordering her to find Azelma and Gavroche and get them, herself, and the other maids prepared to go.

Cosette is still imploring Eponine to talk about what happened when the door slams. Both girls whirl to find Enjolras in the doorway, glaring between them, appearing twice as tall as usual from all the anger that's radiating off him. Cosette throws Eponine a half-worried, half-encouraging glance, then practically sprints from the room, leaving the young, married couple very much alone.

For a long moment, all they do is stare. Then, Enjolras snaps, "Courfeyrac made me come talk to you. He seems to think we need to clear the air."

"He's much smarter than you give him credit for," Eponine replies, turning away from him and busying herself with absently rearranging the pillows on their bed.

"Why won't you do this for me, Eponine?" Enjolras asks, and although his voice is still frustrated and infuriated, there's a tone to the question that bellies something a lot like desperation – like begging, almost – that was missing before.

"Would you like me to start with this whole 'we must do our duty' hypocrisy of yours, your lack of respect for me as a woman, or your lack of respect for me as your _wife?_" she challenges, turning around to glare at him.

"You think I don't _respect_ you? How could you even begin to think that, Eponine? I've never touched you without your consent, never attempted to control you or force you to do anything if it was in my power–."

"You're forcing _this_ on me, Enjolras!" she snaps. "You won't even hear me out about it!"

"To _protect_ you, Eponine! I'm trying to protect you, to save you. _And_ give you your life back!" Even he looks a little surprised by this sudden outburst, this unexpected confession. Quieter, perhaps even a little cowed, he continues, "This would all be over, you'd be free again, to live the life _you_ want, without a marriage you never wanted and a husband you detest." His voice breaks as he says the last part, and Eponine realizes that he thinks he's not going to come back from the war being brought in on the wind.

She shakes her head, trying to push the lump in her throat down and ignore his words. Yet her voice is higher as she asks quietly, all rage suddenly gone, "How can you be so sure they'll even follow me?"

Enjolras actually laughs a little bit, and the sound wraps around her heart and squeezes even as she tries to forget that he thinks he's going to his death. "They love you, Eponine. More than they've ever loved me. They love you the way they loved my mother. Our nations are basically one now, and your home is theirs as much as ours is yours. They'll follow you because they believe in you. And if we win, someone will have to bring them back and lead them. That will be you."

He's not looking at her, and he sounds a little like a lost child, and suddenly Eponine wants nothing more than to take him in her arms and hold him. Her anger is forgotten, and now all she feels is a resolute sense of heartbreak, though she can't even understand why.

She takes a step forward, and abruptly realizes that she's crying again. But the tears aren't hot and angry, this time. "I'm not leaving you," she tells him, voice breaking. "Enjolras, don't make me go." It wasn't intended to sound like begging, but that's exactly how it comes out, and his face twists in response. He looks away. "Please," she implores, voice barely above a whisper, "I want to stay with you."

Enjolras' gaze snaps back to her own tearful eyes, and she wonders if he understands that she means so much more than staying with him for the battle.

He must, because a moment later, he's crossed the empty space between them in big, long strides, and is kissing her passionately.

Eponine's mind instantly goes blank, and instinct takes over. She latches her arms around him, her fingers knotting into fists in his hair as she kisses him hungrily. He wraps himself around her, pressing so hard into her that she's bent over backwards as his lips cover her own, consume the tears, explore her jaw and her neck and her ears and shoulders and face.

Before she realizes what's happening, his shirt is off, and she's exploring the vast planes of his chest and the mountains and valleys of his back in a way that she's never done before. There's something almost frantic about the way he scoops her up, and she jumps up, helping him to lift her, wrapping her legs tight around his waist.

It's never gone this far before, and Eponine can't keep up with what's happening. She briefly wonders if this is what it's like to be in love, to be so utterly consumed by heat and passion that clear thought is impossible, and as Enjolras gently deposits her on the bed and kneels over her, nipping at her collarbone and tightly grasping her hips, she decides it must be.

Something in the back of her mind realizes _this is it_, and she's overwhelmed with sudden nerves and fear in the face of what's to come – in this moment with him, and after, and tomorrow, and for the rest of her life – but his hands are on her breasts over her dress and she pushes the feeling down, instead focusing on the _heat_ radiating between them.

The next thing she knows, her dress is being pulled over her head, and she's pulling his pants down, and they're left almost completely bare before each other for the _first_ time. The heat is building like she's never felt it before as they crawl up the bed together, and when they reach the pillows, Enjolras settles his weight on her. The air escapes from Eponine's lungs, though not because he's heavy, but because his weight feels _good_ on top of her; like it was always meant to be there, like before now she was too light, likely to float away, but now that he's there he'll keep her grounded, even though he's rendering her anything but.

The rest of their clothes are quickly shed, and Enjolras settles on her again – his fingers are everywhere, tracing burning paths as they go – and Eponine clutches at him, digging her nails in from the pain of her first time.

Still, the noises he's making are a delightful distraction, and he's caressing her and kissing her tenderly and so worried about her as she gasps and writhes a bit, trying to relax as he strokes her hair.

Eventually the pain lessens a bit – or maybe she simply accepts it – and her thighs rise around his hips like the moon in the night sky. Her senses shift and her breathing grows heavy, and she thinks that this is what the moon must feel as, each morning, the sun consumes her darkness and burns her out of the sky.

All she can see for a long moment is Enjolras: the shocks of golden hair, the eyes the color of the water that is carrying to them their doom, and then she can see nothing at all, and her thoughts cease, too. She only knows his heat, his passion, his voice. And she realizes she's talking to him, begging him for something, though she hardly knows for what.

When it's over, he does not rush away to prepare for war, he does not shut her out, she does not get angry with him. Instead, he holds her, lazily dragging his fingers along her skin, occasionally trading tired, quiet words with her and satisfied, if sad, smiles.

Eponine wants to speak with him, wants to beg him to let her stay, or beg him to come along, but bringing it up will make it real again, and right now they're too blissfully happy to think about the warships darkening their horizon.

Still, it isn't long before reality sets in, and she's crying, and he's kissing her again, and this time, their movements are desperate and emotional and, as the sun sets and the stars begin to flicker and the moon starts climbing in the night sky, she begins to feel like he's not really there, like he's already fighting a battle, like he's already gone, like it's his ghost moving in her. She simultaneously feels like he's saying goodbye, and like he left and _never_ said goodbye and she will never see him again.

They don't go to dinner, they don't leave the bed, they don't even really speak, because there's nothing much to say, and neither one can find the words for the things that _need _to be said. Time just seems to move more quickly, and each time reality comes crashing down on one of them, they start again, playing a game of cat and mouse with the truth, with their bodies, forcing one another to forget, even if it's only for a little while.

And then, they sleep. Eponine wants to stay awake, _needs to stay awake_, but the thought of a weeklong ride, especially after all of _this_, is daunting, and she's exhausted, and his breath is already growing steadier and steadier against her neck.

Then, suddenly, a loud knocking on the door jolts them both awake. It's Combeferre, announcing that the people are gathering, that it's nearly time to go. Judging by the position of the moon, they can't have been asleep for more than thirty minutes, but Eponine already regrets the wasted time.

Enjolras begins kissing her intensely, clinging to her lips just as she clings to his and holding her so tightly she feels as though her ribs might crack, like he's trying to pull her into him, to hang on to her forever – however, that's all that happens, as he just as quickly breaks it, helping her quickly dress and pack as he himself finds fresh clothes.

She's crying again, and periodically he'll stop running about the room to tenderly kiss her lips and tears, and a few minutes later they're descending, hand in hand, to the noise of an entire city gathering for an exodus.

When they reach the back of the column, she moves to drop his hand, but he keeps a steady hold on hers that only grows tighter as they near the front, where their friends await. As soon as she spots her horse, Eponine winces, dreading how uncomfortable she's going to be in the saddle, though not regretting any of it for a second. Were the situation not so somber, she would have joked about it to Enjolras.

No one makes any comments – not even Courfeyrac can muster up a smug smile – at their late, disheveled arrival. Spirits are dampened, and many people are crying.

Eponine herself dried her eyes before approaching the people, and refuses to cry again. Still, she clutches Enjolras' hand as though it's the only thing keeping her alive as they begin to make their goodbyes.

He tells her Marius, Feuilly, Joly, and Bossuet are going along, serving as her guard, but by the strange set of his mouth, she can tell that they're not there for _her_, but so that they wouldn't have to leave the women they had fallen for. Resentment and jealousy gnaw at her, though she knows that's not entirely fair. Still, it hurts, knowing that they would not have found each other without her marriage to Enjolras, yet _she_ is always the one coming up short.

They each say all of their goodbyes hurriedly, but tenderly. Enjolras' father kisses her hand and each of her cheeks, and retreats into the castle almost immediately, as she and Enjolras both go around saying goodbye to their friends. The boys that are staying with him each promise to do their best to get Enjolras back to her; she implores each to make sure they _bring_ him in person.

She hears Gavroche begging to stay with them, to fight, and almost breaks into a million pieces right then and there. Enjolras refuses, though it almost makes her smile when he reminds Gavroche of how crazy Eponine is, of how _someone_ will need to make sure she doesn't do anything too wild. He asks Gavroche to do that for him, and the boy proudly accepts.

Then it's time to say goodbye to him. They retreat behind her horse for just a sliver of privacy, and stare at one another for a moment that seems both eternal and instantaneous. He takes her hand, then, brushing his lips against her knuckles, taking his time to wind his fingers between her own. Eponine's heart catches in her throat, and a lump forms there as well, and her eyes begin to sting. She has a million things to say, but they all sound too much like farewell, so instead of words, she just rises on her tiptoes and brushes her lips in a soft kiss, first on his Adam's apple and then on his mouth. He folds her into his arms, breaking the kiss and hugging her tightly, his face buried into the crook between her neck and shoulder.

Then, Enjolras slowly pulls away, planting a kiss on her collarbone, then her lips, then her forehead. "Take care of each other," he murmurs, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"You too," she whispers back.

He tucks her hair behind her ear, his eyes staring intensely back and forth between her own as if he's searching for something, or memorizing them. He wipes a tear with his thumb, one she didn't even know had fallen, and her fingers wrap around his wrist. He fondly runs his thumb along the apple of her cheek, his eyes on hers, and then he abruptly turns to leave.

Eponine does not let go of his wrist, and pulls him back to her when he tries to slip from her grasp.

"Ep–."

"Promise me you'll come back," she says, cutting him off, not in the least worried about who might be listening to her beg.

Enjolras gives her a soft look. He opens his mouth to answer, but she only cuts him off again.

"You need to come and find me, tell me how it all goes," she says, playing with the collar on his jacket. She tries to keep her tone light, joking, but it's thick and heavy with threatening tears.

So he kisses her on the forehead, and patronizingly replies, "I promise."

Then he leaves her.

She watches him go; he glows silver in the light of the moon, and she can't help but think of how spectral he seems, as though he's already gone and she just spent her night making love to a ghost.

The thought breaks something in her, and Eponine realizes she's running after him, catching up, forcefully turning him around and doing her best not to dissolve into tears as she begs him to come with them.

Enjolras sighs, pulling her into a hug again, then pulls away and kisses her passionately. Eponine feels the tears falling from her eyes as she clings to his lips like they're her last hope. She doesn't care who is watching, doesn't care about propriety or their history or what anyone else might think.

Enjolras breaks the kiss rather quickly, giving her a sad smile, then murmurs, "You have to go now," at her, before leaning down and abruptly throwing her over his shoulder.

Eponine shrieks and struggles, but Enjolras just marches her to her horse, and practically tosses her into her saddle. She glares down at him as she tries to make herself comfortable, only glaring more when she remembers that it's _because_ of him she's in pain.

He laughs a little bit, his hand on her knee, and takes one last look around at his friends, then pats her and turns away.

This time, Eponine lets him go. He does not look back, walking with his shoulders squared and his head held high, and she remains stone-faced as the column of people – refugees, now – slowly begins to move out.

The trek to Eponine's home city takes nearly twice as long as it did the first time she made the journey. It's very slow going, with most of the people on foot, herding livestock and pulling along what little belongings they could bring.

Morale is low; most of them had to say goodbye to warriors they left behind to defend their home. But it makes for a peaceful trip, as everyone is too frightened and upset to cause too many problems.

For her part, Eponine is the picture of strength and calm, hopeful leadership. She sends riders ahead to alert King Javert of their arrival, and spends the evenings traveling from little camp to little camp, checking on the people – _her_ people – as they put up tiny tents and impromptu fences for the animals.

And finally, they arrive. The whole city seems to have come out as Javert's guard comes to meet her, leading them in. She sits tall and proud in her saddle as she is lead through the streets, doing her best to not look around too much, lest she completely fall to pieces. Still, she sees so many faces – people she grew up with, people who were kind or mean or worshipped her, people that she could have sworn were actually from Enjolras' city, not her own.

It's bizarre, to say the least, as she takes in the sights that are all at once comfortingly familiar and terrifyingly alien. She wishes Enjolras were here so that she could explain it to him.

The thought of him makes her throat constrict, but she pushes it all away, instead focusing on the once-familiar buildings and the places she haunted with her friends.

She meets Javert, and they instantly begin planning. He sends a company of soldiers to Enjolras, but mobilizes the rest of them to prepare in case the stand on the cliffs fail, and the invaders head further inland.

For her part, Eponine spends the next several days organizing the refugees into camps, doing her best to find ways to keep them well fed, clean, clothed, and safe. It's especially wonderful because it takes up all of her energy, and for that first week she's back home, she falls into bed each night much too tired to even notice how much she misses Enjolras' arms around her.

But things quickly quiet down, and it's not long before Eponine feels herself breaking apart at the seams. She keeps a brave face, even as Musichetta and Cosette and Azelma regard her with worry, even as the boys begin to practically force her to go on long walks through the city, even as she finally gets to see her twin brothers again and brings them to Javert's castle and away from her parents for good, even as she goes to sleep at night finally and utterly alone for the first time all day, even though it's the hardest time for her.

She manages to keep it together until the summer solstice, until what should be his nineteenth birthday. Then, everything comes crashing down. She wakes as the sun rises in a blood red sky, suddenly sure it's a sign. She had had hope, but there's been no news, and now she's certain of what it means.

And she prays, for the first time in months. She prays for his safety, for the safety of _all_ of them, for his city and her own home as well. She prays desperately, incessantly, she even goes to the Temple. The Priestesses say nothing as she enters, head held high, welcoming her back even as she collapses to her knees on the doorstep. They help her up, take her to the altar, and she stays there all day, caught between uncontrollable – though silent – sobbing and stony indifference.

She doesn't even necessarily believe in the gods, even after everything that's happened. In fact, she's quite sure that if they did exist, things like bloody wars over relatively unimportant territory wouldn't happen. But she needs to do something, needs to feel like she's still connected to him somehow, even though she fears the worst.

She prays through the night, hollow, heartbroken words uttered in silence to whatever entity is out there in the cosmos listening. She is sure nothing will come of it, and almost sure that Enjolras has already been taken from her, but all that she knows is that if she never sees him again, she might not survive.

As the night wears on, as she keeps his birthday vigil as the shortest night slowly relinquishes its hold on the stars, she begins to realize just how stupid she's been. All the pining, all the uncertainty and desire and tension, all her pleading and crying and pain, it all comes down to one stunning, breathtaking realization.

She loves him.

She loves him as more than a friend, as more than someone she's become attached to thanks to a forced betrothal, as more than someone who saved her life and opened up doors she never thought she'd have access to.

No, she's _in_ love with him, and as the reality of her feelings and the hopelessness of the situation come simultaneously crashing down on her, she collapses to the ground, praying this time for him to take her in death if she can't have him in life.

And in the morning, the illness begins.

The Priestesses predict the baby will be born during an eclipse, given that it's a child of light and dark. For her part, Eponine thinks they're insane. She's angry. Angry at the Priestesses for continuing to perpetuate the ridiculous myth that she's actually a goddess and Enjolras a god, at everyone who was involved in her betrothal, at this fatherless child for forcing her to be something when all she wants is to be nothing.

She's especially angry with Enjolras. He antagonized her, fought her, befriended her, loved her _for one night_, then left her. Forever. With his child. She's angry that he impregnated her, that she's expected to be a mother and a wife even though she's still a child herself, and, most of all, that she has to do it all without him.

They were children when this started. Neither one mature enough for marriage, nor the complicated emotions that arranged betrothals bring, nor sex, nor goodbyes. Yet here they are – he, a child warrior, a supposed god, probably just as easily killed and, now, most likely just as dead as any mortal ever was. And she, a pregnant widow. Depressed, heartbroken, in love with a ghost. Both forced to grow up too quickly for things neither one is ready for. She resents him for it, and his father, and her own king, and even herself.

Even worse is the overwhelming realization that she _needs_ him. This baby needs a father, needs someone there so she's not raising it herself, because the gods only know how awful _that_ would be. She's not fit to be a mother, not on her own. Not when the man she loves has met some unknown fate and left her behind forever in this life. Not when she's too heartbroken to even get out of bed.

She _needs_ him to keep going, and without him, she despairs.

Still the Priestesses and her friends care for her, and Eponine is determined to be strong for this baby, and for Enjolras. It hurts to know that every day, she'll see his face staring back at her – maybe this child will have his bright blue eyes, or his golden curls. But at the same time, it slowly becomes a strange comfort, the idea of having a little mini-Enjolras running around all over the place. And she knows she'll at least have plenty of help, between her friends and his.

Still, the nights are cold without him, and the pain from the absence of his arms in the morning manifests itself in the form of an icy, iron fist squeezing at her heart, and sometimes she can't breathe.

Eponine remains almost exclusively confined to the Temple, unwilling to venture out into the city. She can't stand the thought of the people she grew up with seeing her weak, hurting, alone, and _pregnant_. She can't stand the thought of walking the streets that used to be her home, but now feel so big, so vacant, so _ugly_.

And although she's resolved to be strong, to at least see this child into the world, she accepts very few visitors outside of her sister and two closest friends. Occasionally she'll let the boys in, but she hates being seen like this, and they're her last link to her husband. She almost feels as though, if she lets them see her too broken, too hurt, he'll somehow know. It's completely crazy, but pregnancy and Enjolras' absence have rendered her a little more illogical than usual.

She's used to people trying to get in to see her, however. The people she brought from Enjolras' home, her childhood friends, even Montparnasse. Eponine has her guards turn them all away, but eventually she realizes that they that have been stationed on either side of the door to her room and are there to protect her more from herself than from others.

So when there's a rather large amount of commotion one day, only a week or so after her first marriage anniversary (celebrated alone, in her bed, with her hand on the slight swell in her abdomen and morose tears streaming down her cheeks), she thinks nothing of it. It's nothing out of the ordinary, someone persistently arguing with the guards to get in to see her. The refugees have been in their camps for a few months now, and tensions are running high between their situation and the ever-more-likely prospect of the war heading their way.

She just tries to drown it out, because she doesn't care. Even if she were whole, even if she didn't desperately miss the husband she had never wanted, nor need him by her side, she wouldn't be able to do anything. This is no longer her kingdom, no longer her home. This city is as foreign to her now as Enjolras' was when she first arrived, and his is most likely destroyed. And now her only home is probably no more than a corpse in the ground. She cannot control anyone's circumstances anymore than she can her own, and she's such a mess that she can't imagine anyone wanting her help, anyway.

Still, the voices are raised, and soon there's a shouting match just outside her room. Her curiosity is piqued, even though she hasn't been paying close enough attention to know what exactly they're arguing about, and everyone out there is effectively drowning each other out too loud to make out anything being said.

So Eponine slowly rises to her feet. It's not hard, she's only just started to show, but the pain of Enjolras' absence has been weighing down on her, and she just doesn't have the energy to move quickly. By the time she makes it to the entrance of the temple, the guards that are stationed at her door are dragging a struggling man between them, while several others follow, running about and shouting and causing quite the scene.

There's something familiar about the set of the shoulders of the man, even as he's being dragged, though she certainly doesn't recognize the golden-brown, close-cropped hair or the clothes he's wearing. And those raging around him, they seem so familiar, some of them with their curly dark heads, and the others with olive or dark skin and clothes that look rather out of place in this spacious city.

Her heart skips a beat, but Eponine dares not hope. Still, something is pulling at her, and she can't help rushing after the guards as they drag the man away, running slowly and with a hand on her growing belly, shouting for them to stop.

When the guards finally hear her over the din, they freeze and turn slowly. She stops as well to catch her breath, and from the silhouette of the man they're holding, from the set of his shoulders, she can _tell_. He's haunted her dreams, her waking nightmares, the cold half of the bed that she can't bring herself to sleep on. She knows; it's him. It's Enjolras.

"That's my husband," she says, and though her voice is shaking, there is no doubt in it, and the guards hesitantly pull him to his feet. Now Eponine is sure, as somewhere on the edge of her vision, she can see Combeferre and Grantaire and Courfeyrac (and her heart pounds all the faster, knowing that at least _they're_ all right), but as she approaches Enjolras, who still has not turned around, the relief she feels abruptly shifts to blinding fury.

She speeds up as she approaches him, feeling a scowl forming, every intention of slapping the ever-loving _bejesus_ out of him for not letting her know he was alive. But then he finally, _finally_ turns to face her, and she can look in his eyes straight on again, after months of not knowing, after months of whispering to his ghost, after months of fear and despair. And she almost drops where she stands.

As Enjolras fully turns, he reveals the shriveled, almost grotesque wrinkles of a severe burn covering nearly the entire right side of his head. Eponine's stomach churns at the sight, and perhaps it's the fact that she's more and more a mother each day, or because she's finally laid eyes on the man she's desperately in love with again, but something in her breaks, and she can almost _feel_ the excruciating pain of the burn melting the very skin from his face.

She must have looked a bit weak, because suddenly Enjolras is there, ready to catch her, but his fingers never even brush her. As she regards his hands, some primal part of her wishes they were touching her, but she pushes those feelings down. She's relieved he's alive, at least, but there's too much to discuss before they can pick up this marriage again.

Eponine takes a deep breath, and the look she gives him must have been a harsh one, because his face twists and he falls to his knees again, no longer appearing too concerned by whether or not she'll stay standing.

She takes the moment to study the burn; Enjolras' right ear is almost entirely gone, just a little stump of what it used to be. The burn itself is still pink, still seems tender, and is crescent-shaped, covering most of the side of his head, but cutting as well down to his neck and up into his scalp; the hair no longer grows there. He's nearly unrecognizable.

"Am I hallucinating?" Eponine hears herself murmur.

"No, it's real," Enjolras replies, looking away from her.

Pity churns in Eponine's stomach, even though she knows it's the last thing he would want; he thinks she doesn't believe he's really scarred. "Not that," she snaps impatiently, "_You_."

Astonished, Enjolras regards her for a long, intense moment with an expression she cannot read. "I'm here," he finally whispers uncertainly, staring up at her without blinking.

A long moment passes as they stare back and forth, and suddenly, Eponine realizes she's yelling at him. She's not entirely sure what all she says; some of it is about how he just left her behind, and how she thought he was dead – especially because they never received any news about the battle's progress or the fallen – and about how _now_ he just shows up out of the blue, alive and well, even if he does rather look like death warmed up.

For his part, Enjolras just sits there and takes it. He does not meet her eyes, just stares off to the right, his expression growing more and more hurt, more and more pained as she rants and rages.

And when she's done, when she's breathing heavily and suddenly _so_ worn out, he turns his wounded gaze on her, quietly revealing, "We won."

Eponine just regards him critically, unsure of whether to reach out and touch him or to slap him and leave.

Before she can come up with a reply, he continues, "Father died." He does not meet her eyes as he announces it, and she feels her heart break for him yet again, despite the difficulties he had always had with the man. And finally, _finally_, his blue eyes meet her brown ones as he whispers, sounding lost and alone and so, so much older than he is, "I'm prepared to break the marriage contract, if you want. I know you're mad, I know I've done some unforgiveable things, and that nothing has gone right between us. And now…."

Eponine's heart breaks in two as Enjolras gestures angrily at his ruined skin. She wants to reach out and touch him, but somehow knows that he would not accept forgiveness out of pity.

"And now, I'm disfigured, and you deserve so much more." It's barely audible, but it's there, hovering between them. Her freedom, no strings attached, forever linked with his self-loathing.

Instead of touching him, holding him, saying _anything_ to help the morose young man prostrated in front of her, the first thing that spills from her mouth is, _"Well maybe you should've thought of that before you got me pregnant!"_ She nearly shouts it, gesturing wildly at her swollen belly, just barely visible beneath the black, flowing dress she's wearing.

Enjolras gapes up at her, then slowly lets his eyes fall to her stomach, straight ahead of him. The look of wonder on his face is almost enough for _her_ to fall to her knees, to kiss him everywhere and anywhere she can reach, but her anger stops her.

He looks back up at her, his countenance shocked and panicked, and starts apologizing profusely. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he cries, surprising her. "It's my fault, all of it, and now you'll be married to a disfigured cripple forever, a prisoner of a marriage you never wanted and raising a child that you never asked for!"

Eponine just rolls her eyes at his dramatic outburst. "You're not _actually_ crippled, you know," she reminds him, but reaches out tentatively all the same, as though she's approaching a hurt, wild animal.

She slowly runs her fingers through the fuzz of his sloppily shorn hair, her fingers brushing the cheekbone on the good side of his face tenderly. "You're beautiful," she whispers, loud enough for only him to hear, looking down at him with a soft smile.

Enjolras raises his eyes to hers, and the unadulterated _hope_ in them almost breaks her in half, and the tears are barely contained. Slowly, so very slowly, her hand ghosts along his face, until it reaches the edges of the burn. Her smile falls a bit as she examines it, absently and sadly admitting, "It's my fault." The surprise in his eyes is evident, though it barely registers as she traces the wound. He winces a bit, even though her touch is feather light. "You've been branded with the mark of the goddess, the mark of the moon." A single, humorless peel of laughter escapes her throat. "The gods are punishing me for renouncing them, but rather than punish me directly, they've seen fit to use you as a reminder to me. One neither of us will ever be able to escape." Her hands absently rub her baby bump as she speaks, reminding them both that no matter what either wants, they _have_ to stay together, for the sake of their child.

"I didn't need the gods to brand me," he admits, his voice stronger and surer and his gaze much more intense. "You did that yourself." Then, that half-smirk of his, the one that makes her heart skip a beat. "Granted, I liked your way better – no fire and infection and permanent disfigurement."

Eponine giggles in spite of herself, but sobers quickly when he continues.

"I know it's disgusting, and say the word, and you'll never have to gaze upon it when it's not necessary but for the sake of the child–."

She leans down, having heard enough, and brushes her lips against the edge of his burn. It's oddly hotter than the smooth skin just next to it, and she feels him twitch beneath her and worries she's hurt him. Then she pulls away, holding his good cheek in her hand and stroking its apple with her thumb. "The mark of the goddess, made with the fire of the god. It makes sense, given who everyone thinks we are," she remarks, smiling slightly.

Then, Eponine reaches down, slipping her hands into his and feeling her heart quicken, reveling in the familiarity and comfort his touch brings. She kisses each hand, then smiles almost shyly at him as she places them on her swollen belly and covers them with her own. And Enjolras just kneels there, staring in wonder between her eyes and her stomach.

Then she gently, tenderly places a hand on each of his cheeks. "You know," she murmurs, suddenly feeling content and _alive_ again, her veins buzzing with the electricity he always brings and her heart pounding at his closeness, "I've kind of missed waking up and watching the sunrise over the sea."

He smiles. And in that smile, Eponine can tell that Enjolras understands everything; he understands that she's not talking about the sea. No, she's admitting she that wants him, that she needs him, that her home and her life and her future are with _him_. She's admitting that she loves him.

A huge, giddy, almost stupid grin breaks out across his face, and Eponine is sure that it mirrors her own. He stands, his hands sliding from her stomach to either side of her face, and plants a tender kiss on her forehead, before tucking her hair behind her ear.

"I love you too, Eponine," he whispers, his voice hoarse and just a little afraid. Still, she can hear the smile in it, and she smiles right back as his warm lips _finally_ cover her own.

It's a short, chaste kiss, but it means the world to her. Eponine is just happy to be with him again, she realizes, as Enjolras breaks the kiss only to pull her into a tight hug.

She looks up, purposefully avoiding the smiles of their friends (though thrilled to see they've all survived), and sees both the sun and the moon sharing the sky; a good omen.

She smiles wider, and closes her eyes, burying her face in the crook where his neck meets his shoulder.

Enjolras' fingers tangle in her hair, and for the first time in months, Eponine is happy.

And she's never letting go.


End file.
